Aftermath
by transcendently
Summary: AU A long time ago, someone had loved you once. GokuTsu


**Aftermath;**

_How will you take this?_

Once, in a dusty music shop at the edge of town, he had asked Gokudera to teach him how to play something beautiful.

"Something from a movie, maybe, or something you like?"

Gokudera turns away, a little sideways, but considers it.

So today, he helps Tsuna slip on a set of headphones as they both perch on stacks of old records, sides frayed and losing color. "Here." He says, adjusting the two earpieces on Tsuna's head. He presses 'play' and looks off, hands in pockets, pretending to be interested in the Noh and Chopin.

Piano.

It slips and trickles down into his lungs as he breathes it in, rushing, yet slow. He tries to make sense of it. But Tsuna can't hold his breath for more than half a minute (less than that?) and he has to let it go. Note. Note. Note. Note note note. _Capture it._. Note note note note _notenotenotenotenote…_he tries to grasp it, find a hook, pull it back down, anchor it, bring it close— but ends up finding Gokudera's hand. "What's it called?" is the question that replaces the one he never asks.

"I'll teach you."

_Truth is – _

They're on the highest point, at the entrance of the temple. The incense wafts around the both of them. Gokudera slips out a box, a lighter, and sixteen sticks of escape. He flicks it open and by habit offers one to Tsuna, who will by habit shake his head _no, no_. He shrugs and pulls back, as customary, sticking it in his mouth and facing away, across the small town. Tsuna drags a finger across Gokudera's back:

_Would…you…_then smooths his hand across the rest.

It's a week before Gokudera finally interprets it and another before he has the courage to ask— "Would I what?"

"Nothing."

And he doesn't ask for the rest.

_I didn't have a choice._

"I'm no one again." He finally explains.

Elaborate.

The explanation to the explanation: "It was my decision."

I don't understand, tell me again.

Tsuna smiles an exasperated smile and works out the knots in his head. Think of it this way, he offers, at least you can go home now.

Home?

Yes.

He pulls back. Pulls out of the room, down the flight of stairs, and out the door.

There was no reason for him to be there.

The cigarette smoulders into fine ash.

_& thus..._

Gokudera pulls out the piano from the music room for this occasion, some four floors up at the other side of the school and somehow brought it out onto the track field. Tsuna doesn't know what to do, and taps at the keys, before pulling away after feeling the sobering stare from Gokudera.

But the boy circles the instrument to the other side, and after Tsuna has gotten a considerable distance away, flicks a bright flame and sets the lid on fire. It's slow, the flame, and he takes his time in heading back towards the front, keys waiting.

He starts. He pounds out arias and concertos and sonatas and ballads into one huge flurry of notes, rips and tears out note after note after note until one song begins to meld into the next or a jumble of them insert themselves between bars and alternate between themselves and Tsuna, over at the side fights the instinct to run or yell or grab Gokudera and pull him away from the flames, though he can't help but watch. The lid gives way and slams down onto the piano. The legs crumble. The sides pour of black paint. The entire instrument comes tumbling down on two legs and Gokudera pushes off of his seat and kneels down, continuing his concert.

The strings finally snap— each one igniting the next in a domino fashion, and yet he continues. Everything is silent, but now the individual keys get their own solos, with runs up and down the board, the flames licking at the sharps and flats, pulling at the edges, at the sides, and finally, finally, finally ending with the final high C. And it's only after Gokudera takes both hands and places him in his lap that the keys bursts into flames, a combustion of oxygen meeting flames and the entire thing falls in on itself, the sky smoky black against the back drop of dim skylights. Gokudera dusts himself off, standing up and makes his way to Tsuna, who had already flattened himself against the bleachers, unable to make sense of the spectacle.

"Something beautiful, Tsunayoshi-san." Gokudera looks down at him with cool, polite concern.

He leaves for Italy the next day.

_I've wanted--_

The room is sparse.

He doesn't own much. A few books, fresh vegetables and fruits, a second-hand yet operable television set. A chair. A Formica table. A small wall phone. Unplugged.

It feels as if no one lives in it. Gokudera makes two, three, four rounds daily, scrubbing and dusting every single corner and crevice. It looks better that way, and there's no niggling thought at the back of his mind of anything missing.

And when he's all done, he likes to sit and stare out the only window in the room. And so he perches on the chair, looking down, watching the scenes below. He watches fights and misunderstandings and apologies. He watches glass and bullets and night. He watches love. Genuine love. Deep respect and admiration before the two end up blowing each other's brains out. He rests his head against the glass and curls inwards, smiling.

He likes the window the best.

_Nothing._

On the fifty-eighth day, he receives a letter. He doesn't open it right away, leaving it on the table. He leaves it there and goes off to attend to some cleaning. He comes back, looks at it, and goes off. Comes back. Leaves. Glances. Looks away. Swallows. There's something heavy inside, and he wonders if the floor will be enough to sustain the weight, or whether the table will sink and crack the floor, and how the neighbors downstairs will take it.

And finally, it meets the same end as the other fifty seven letters from Yamamoto Takeshi.

Burnt into a crisp.

But it's okay, because Gokudera is careful to brush away the ashes and there's no harm done and in the end, no one had sent anything.

_I understand now._

It's been months.

A month turns into two and seasons turn his window icy and it becomes harder to stay for too long before he's compelled to huddle in the middle of the room, within the drone of the television set.

The letters too, change from being addressed to "Gokudera Hayato" to "Gokudera-kun", the name fades from Yamamoto Takeshi to Tsunayoshi Sawada.

He doesn't have the heart to burn them anymore. Instead, there is an impressive pile next to the window where he keeps them, and lets the window open, even during the dead of night. If one or two has made its way out, Gokudera pretends not to notice.

Shamal comes by often, though out of habit than for any real reason, shakes his head at the meticulous neatness of a 'bachelor pad', sits down and makes his own coffee, watching as Gokudera makes his rounds around the flat. He gives arbitrary advice. No sleeping with skanks. Wear protection, you idiot. Drinking is bad for your liver, trust me on this one. He leaves a pack of cigarettes on the kitchen counter when he thinks Gokudera isn't looking and takes his leave the same way. Gokudera doesn't stop him, but leaves those next to the window, on top of the letters.

There are more pleasant things to do than burning lungs and hearts.

_& yet_

It takes him awhile, but he finds a family, nothing like Vongola, but a small one with a growing reputation. They all clap when he plays something and weave their way in and out of his life and he has no time to stop and consider anything anymore.

The letters find themselves at the bottom of his wastebasket. He's rarely inside, and when he is, it's only for a quick change of clothes and a shower before leaving again. He takes up smoking again.

There was something waiting for him again.

_& yet_

The letters stay out of sight and soon after five years, they stopped altogether. And yet Gokudera keeps them bundled up tight and places them back into the wastebasket. He now owns a tub instead, and sometimes he fishes one out from the pile and stares at it, fingering the edges and with half a mind to open one, puts it down and walks out of the apartment. There are stars. Beautiful ones. He picks one to toast to such a lovely evening and walks on.

It's finished. He's finished.

_I've missed you._

It's all over now.

* * *

AN:I started writing this when I was angry and incredibly disappointed— and it was only about halfway through when my anger finally dissipated, and yet this still remained... 

I don't think I've ever written so fast before. XDD;; And ahahahahah, I'm not mad anymore, dw guys. xDDDD

_從前__從前__有個人愛你很久…_


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